


Red-Blooded Creatures

by gersaint



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Henry VI - Shakespeare, Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambition, Betrayal, F/M, Hallucinations, Historical Inaccuracy, References to Shakespeare, Treason, excessive Latin at the end, if people can make Richard III a woobie why can't I make Henry VI a villain, or maybe universe alteration, very strange alternate universe, wreaking havoc on historical fact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 11:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5741395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gersaint/pseuds/gersaint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since the mysterious death of the White Hart, England has been under the rule of the House of York. (The Mortimers, of course, did not take kindly to this.) Amidst all the faithless slaughter marring the realm, only the House of Lancaster has remained steadfast in the cause of the crown. But the descendants of John of Gaunt are red-blooded creatures. And Henry of Windsor, fourth Duke of Lancaster, is no exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red-Blooded Creatures

It was almost too easy at first. Things went wrong eventually, of course; things always go wrong. Now he’s in a sumptuous cell in the Tower (as befits a royal duke) remembering – remembering what? Oh, all of it. Bits and pieces here and there.

He is not yet fifty, and his hair is not yet gray.

 

~

 

King Richard IV. Everyone called him the bright star of England. His father had once been Earl of Cambridge, but threw in his lot with Bolingbroke in 1398. Together they environed the White Hart like a pack of gilded wolves. It was a sensation, or so our duke has been told, for he was not yet born when all this happened.

Bolingbroke earnestly pleaded for his duchy and nothing else, and was glumly granted it by the king. It was only a matter of time before the son of John of Gaunt was called on to repay his debt to the earl. By 1400, the White Hart lay dead in the dungeons of Pontefract, and Cambridge was King of England. He breathed his last in the fields of France just fifteen brilliant years later.

Well, our duke thinks, the Bible must have been wrong about child kings. Look at Cambridge’s son! He became king when he was hardly four. True, he ended his life amid the roar and smoke of cannons, not knowing where to turn – but while he wore the crown, it had been glory for all England. It is a pity, then, that the House of York has an unfortunate habit of placing its trust in the wrong vessels.

 

~

 

The word _vessel_ is altogether too similar to _vassal_. The etymology is different, to be sure; but one could say, if one were so inclined, that a vassal is the vessel in which the body politic sails. Sailors know well that a vessel must be watertight. Or else the ship of state sinks, taking all on board with it down to the vasty deep.

Our duke – Henry of Windsor, fourth Duke of Lancaster – never liked being a vassal. His great-grandfather was John of Gaunt, who stooped to no one (except when he saw it fit). His grandfather was Henry of Bolingbroke, second Duke of Lancaster: eminently practical and impossibly sparse in his words. His father, then, transformed overnight from the wastrel drunkard Hal into His Grace Henry of Monmouth, third Duke of Lancaster. Our duke has heard it said that his father cut the tallest, finest figure in the realm. He wouldn’t know: he has never met his father – only heard legends about him.

And while listening to those legends, Harry of Windsor could not help but think that such a man, such a comet from a family of such red-blooded creatures, deserved not to be a vassal.

 

~

 

It mattered extremely little that the House of Lancaster had a lackluster claim to the throne. (At least compared to that of the royal House of York; the Mortimers held their defiance upon the points of their swords and seemingly nothing could bring them down.)

One cold summer night, Henry of Windsor found himself saying to his own heart, _I will be king or die._

The word _traitor_ was a welcome title on his lips.

 

~

 

Richard IV was an excellent soldier – all the men of his house were – but a somewhat rash politician. He applied battlefield reasoning to the endless labyrinths of the court: that would not do. And the man put far too much faith in honor.

The king was brave, certainly. When he realized that the House of Lancaster was the crown’s mainmast no longer, he did not flinch. He merely took off his crown and exchanged it for a magnificent helmet.

The Duke of Lancaster knew he would never be able to get the Nevilles on his side. Warwick came close to outright spitting in his face when he slipped the insinuation to the earl. The Beauforts were quite another matter. The Duke of Somerset smiled from ear to ear (it was frightening to see) and downed a silver chalice of wine before making his reply. _Yes, by God._

The Duchess of Lancaster, however, said nothing.

 

~

 

The king died at Wakefield. His last word was _treason_ , and it gave Henry a thrill to hear it. But, as much as he wanted to, Henry did not put the king’s head atop the city gates. That would have been a step too far, even for a traitor.

_Now, then. Am I not king indeed?_

No, indeed, he was not. There was the prince to contend with: the prince who was now King Edward, fourth of that name. Oh, the boy was handsome – he shone even brighter than his father. He took the sun as his symbol, and with it he thawed the English countryside, drove away the winter.

At Towton, an arrow struck Henry in the neck (his father had been stricken in the face like this at Shrewsbury). His own blood got in his eyes – yes, that could have been the end. But it was not. Though the young king had nearly blinded the Duke of Lancaster with the force of three suns, it was not anywhere near the end.

And every time he saw Warwick from across the field, his hand itched at the thought of closing around the earl’s throat.

 

~

 

Scotland was a wild place. Henry of Windsor very much wished that his duchess could be there with him; traitor though she was to his traitorous cause, he grew melancholy without her.

He was always known to be pious to a fault. Perhaps it was his fault, then, that he saw angels and devils jostling before his eyes. The angels were white; the devils were red. It was but a temporary madness – despair strikes at the oddest of times – but it made him laugh. It was very amusing indeed. Even more amusing was the fact that the Duke of Lancaster, pausing in his treasons, was lying on the grass in a forest clearing, seeing miracles and cackling at nothing. When he got up, his hair was full of thorns and brambles.

He settled himself back upon the saddle and began to pray.

 

~

 

He’d almost gotten everything. He had even knelt in front of Warwick for fifteen minutes, and gotten his reward in the form of a nod. He had almost placed the crown on his own head – he could almost say that he was, indeed, King Henry the Sixth – but things went wrong. Things always go wrong.

Warwick was a turncoat if there ever was one: he turned not once but twice. How Henry had not seen it coming, he still does not know, and he still berates himself for it even as he waits for news of his sentence. Edward had all of Burgundy at his side: the silks, the damask, the raiments, the knights, the glorious caparisoned horses, the cloth-of-gold – all of which should have been _his_.

At Barnet, Henry’s lance unhorsed Warwick forever, but it was not enough.

Margaret, Duchess of Lancaster, did not appear on the field at Tewkesbury, as she had in her husband’s not-quite-nightmares. Instead, she watched the day unfold from a safe distance. When she caught sight of the Duke of Lancaster, she waved. Their son was with her – their son who should have been the heir to the throne, if it were not for his mother’s loyalty.

 

~

 

Traitors of the royal blood are not subjected to torture. They are not whipped or otherwise ill-used. But if the Duke of Lancaster were to be whipped, his duchess would visit him in the Tower and comfort him. As it is, she does not visit him and does not comfort him, but she does send him a single red rose.

 

~

 

When she finally does visit him and sees him up close for the first time in years, she is surprised at how young her husband still looks. He is thin – too thin – but there is still color in his face; he still has the strength (and audacity) to smile when she walks in.

 _My lord_ , she says. _How fare you in your imprisonment?_

_Exceeding well, my lady. I thank you._

He has a prayer book in his hands. The margins are richly illuminated; the ink upon the pages offers the only light in the chamber, though it is the middle of the day.

 _You have been praying?_ she asks.

 _Aye_ , he answers.

_Wherefore?_

_To pass the time._

_Hath the day been set yet?_

_Tomorrow at terce, my lady._

She nods, kisses her husband, curtsies, and then she is gone. This time, she leaves a white rose for him.

 

~

 

Henry of Windsor, fourth Duke of Lancaster, is a monstrous traitor to the crown, to King Edward, to the House of York, and to all the fair realm of England.

He is no longer young, but he is still youthful.

His hands are hidden inside his long, fur-lined sleeves (though it is May, the air bites shrewdly).

He has a single scar on his neck.

The sky is a uniform gray that morning at terce as the duke goes to the scaffold. The crowd that has gathered to watch is oddly quiet. It is almost as if – as if they are afraid to cheer, or indeed to make any sound at all.

Margaret is in the crowd. Her dress of white fur and purple silk sets her apart from the grimy Londoners; her hair is a streak of sunshine in the cloudy morning. A crown.

Henry has no words to say, really: he has never been a talkative man. He bows to the executioner; he bows to the crowd. Most of all, he bows to Margaret. Far off in the sea of onlookers, she waves to him just as she did at Tewkesbury. It unravels him a little, and, with hands clasped, he begins to pray very softly to himself.

_Miserere mei, Deus: secundum magnam misericordiam tuam._

He is led to the block; his hands are bound; he keeps them clasped.

_Et secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum, dele iniquitatem meam._

He is blindfolded and he can no longer see Margaret waving to him.

_Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea: et a peccato meo munda me._

He hears the sigh of metal.

_Quoniam iniquitatem meam ego cognosco: et peccatum meum contra me est –_


End file.
